Chapter 18 Jasmine #2
He manages not to grin. “Yes, ma’am.”
Outside the room, I press the back of my head to the cool wall and breathe until my heart believes me. Asher stands close without crowding, the photo already a little beacon in his camera.
“We’ll print it,” he says. “And we’ll look in the cedar chest.”
I nod. “We will.”
And for once, the future doesn’t feel like a cliff. It feels like a map with one more mark.
***
Outside, all I do is look up at Asher. He smiles and says: “You want to go to the diner now, right?” How does this man always know the right thing to say? How does he know what’s in my head?
“Actually yes, Asher. I need to know what mom left for me. And thank you for always being you.”
The diner is dark when we slip in through the back door, the smell of coffee and flour lingering in the air like memories. Chairs are flipped on tables. Only the hum of the old cooler breaks the hush.
Asher sweeps his phone flashlight in a slow arc. “Are you sure you’re up for this tonight?”
I nod. My throat is still raw from goodbyes and from holding myself together in Mom’s room. But her words—false bottom, recipes that matter, a letter maybe—have been echoing in my head all evening. I can’t let them turn to ghosts.
We step into the little office, and I flip on the overhead light. The cedar chest sits under the window, smaller than I remember but somehow sturdier, like it’s been keeping vigil. I kneel, brush dust off the brass latch, and ease it open.
Inside are stacks of handwritten recipe cards, their edges butter-soft from decades of floury fingers.
Clippings from the town paper. A photograph of Mom in her twenties, laughing behind the counter with a tray of pies.
And there is another one of mom and dad together, pointing up to the outside sign with huge grins on their faces.
I wonder if that was taken on the day they took it over from grandpa.
I run my hand along the base until my fingertips find a narrow ridge. My heart skips. I press. A thin board lifts with a quiet snap.
Hidden beneath: a neat bundle wrapped in string. My breath catches as I untie it.
On top is a single, butter-stained recipe card. Grandma June’s Original Scones scrawled across the top in Mom’s bold handwriting; the edges darkened from years of use. I can almost smell the vanilla and orange peel that made the kitchen smell like a holiday morning.
Beneath it, letters folded and refolded until the paper feels like fabric. The first is addressed simply: For Jasmine, when you’re ready.
My throat tightens. I skim the first lines—Mom’s words written years ago, a note about how some recipes aren’t just food, they’re love disguised as flour and sugar; about how running the diner isn’t only survival, it’s memory.
Tears sting before I can stop them.
Asher crouches beside me, quiet, steady. “Hey,” he says softly.
I shake my head, smiling through the blur. “It’s just… Mom. Even back then she was thinking of me. Of this place.”
“She knows you,” he says, voice low. “She knew you’d need this one day.”
I trace the handwriting on the scone card with my thumb. I remember standing on a stool while Mom taught me to cut cold butter into flour, her voice saying don’t overwork it or they’ll be tough. I didn’t know she’d kept the original, tucked away like a secret blessing.
“I thought I was just keeping the diner afloat,” I whisper. “Turns out I’ve been carrying more than bills and menus.”
“Looks like you’ve been carrying a whole story.” His shoulder brushes mine, warm and grounding. “And now you’ve got proof.”
I slip the bundle back carefully to read later. But I keep the scone card in my hand. It feels like permission, like a quiet inheritance.
For a long minute we just sit on the floor in the dim light, surrounded by recipes and memories and the faint hum of the cooler. My heart feels heavier and steadier at once.
“Thank you for coming with me,” I say.
“Wouldn’t let you do this alone,” he murmurs. Then, after a beat: “You gonna bake me those scones?”
A laugh breaks through my tears—small, real. “Yeah. I think I can do that for you.”
***
I feel my heart thud as we walk back into his house, Asher right behind me. Something is going to happen. I don’t know what, but something is going to happen and sweep me right off my feet.
“I don’t know how much I can thank you,” I say, turning as he shuts the door.
“Ah, well. I was off duty today anyway.” He slides his hands into his pockets casually. “Just glad I used it for something useful.”
“Aren’t we all?” I say, then wince. “Also … sorry about everyone assuming we’re together.”
He smiles. “I mean, we were together.”
“No, like—together together. They thought—” I see the laugh gathering in his eyes. “Wow.”
“I have never seen you this flustered,” he says, delighted, and I feel my cheeks flame. If Riley were here, she’d faint from secondhand vindication.
“Somehow,” I say, stepping closer, “even after doing a really good thing, you still manage to piss me off.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Come on what? It’s like a staple.”
“I wonder why.”
He takes a step closer. The tiny hairs at the back of my neck stand up.
“You did the same thing with those robbers,” I say. “Took them down and wouldn’t take a simple thank-you.”
“I was doing my job.”
“Well, you’re terrible at receiving compliments.”
“And you’re bad at giving them.”
Another step. My knees soften.
“I didn’t mind it,” he says, voice suddenly nearer.
“Didn’t mind what?”
“That people thought we were together.”
What?
“What?”
“I’m just saying you don’t need to apologize.”
“That’s not what you’re saying.” I can hear my pulse in my ears. “That is not what you’re saying.”
Silence swells. I turn to go, brain short-circuiting—then his hand closes around my wrist. He pulls me gently toward him.
Our eyes lock. Then our lips do. The world blinks away.
The kiss deepens, and a sinking, soaring feeling hits me: this is right.
Like fate bookmarked this from the moment he cuffed me and shoved me into his car. He pulls back, eyes hunting mine.
“Um—” I say, eloquently.
I knew it. I knew this was going to happen.
***
Something feels off the next morning when I part the blinds and spot a black sedan idling across the street. It could be anyone. It should be anyone.
I watch for another beat. The windows jump up the second the driver notices me watching.
My heart thrums. I grab my phone and call Asher. He’s on patrol and at least thirty minutes out.
“I think Harold’s men are here,” I whisper. “Black sedan. Tinted. Parked across the street. I don’t like this, Asher.”
“Jasmine,” he says, voice steady. “Data, not panic. Is Harold himself there?”
“I can’t see through the glass.”
“If he is, we have probable cause to question him. If not—”
“I can’t tell. The tint’s ridiculous.”
“Jasmine?” Brick’s small voice makes me spin. He’s in pajamas, hair askew, a widening yawn splitting his face. “Is Dad back?”
“He’ll be home soon,” I say, smoothing my voice. “Why don’t you get ready for school? You don’t want to be late on the first day of the week.”
“It’s Tuesday,” Brick and Asher say in unison, one in my ear, one in the kitchen.
“Just— please go get dressed,” I ask Brick, and he trudges up the stairs. I peek through the blinds again—and freeze. “It’s—”
“What?”
“It’s gone.” I stare at empty curb where a car was parked sixty seconds ago. “What exactly is going on here?”
“I’ll call you back,” Asher says. The line clicks dead.
I keep staring like the sedan might flicker back into being. It doesn’t. The street looks normal in that smug way streets do when you’re spiraling … sprinklers ticking, a neighbor’s wind chime arguing with itself.
Okay. Data, not drama.
I unlock the deadbolt and crack the door. The morning air is cool, threaded with cut grass and someone’s overconfident cologne. I step onto the porch and stay in the shadow of the eave. No heroics. Just eyes.
From here I can see the curb where the car was idling—two dark freckles of oil on the asphalt, fresh enough to shine.
A cigarette butt smudged into the gutter: filter branded with a tiny gold crown.
Cute. I lift my phone and zoom on the opposite corner where the sedan likely pulled away.
Fresh tire tracks arc through dust, clean as chalk lines.
“Jasmine?” Mr. Lou next door shuffles out in a bathrobe the color of oatmeal and waves a spoon. “You see the fella this early? He near ran over my ceramic quail.”
“Morning, Mr. Lou. No ,” I call back, forcing lightness. “Please protect the quail at all costs.”
He nods gravely, as if I’ve entrusted him with national security, and disappears.
I snap three quick photos: oil spots, the crushed cigarette, the faint tread. The camera catches a sliver of something under our doormat. I kneel, lift the corner. A plain white envelope slides free, no stamp, my name typed on a label.
Of course.
My pulse hops. I don’t open it outside. I back in, flip the deadbolt, and carry the thing to the kitchen island like it might wriggle. I text Riley first:
Me: You awake?
Riley: I teach teenagers. I’m never awake. What’s up?
Me: Possible creeps-outside-my-house situation. Black sedan, tinted, vanished. Oil drips + fancy cigarette + envelope under mat addressed to me.
Riley: Cool, cool, cool. Move to Norway. Open it. But like… gingerly.
I slide a butter knife under the flap. Inside: a single photocopy of my own counteroffer paperwork—someone’s scrawled a new number across the top in red marker, a number so high it makes me queasy. No letter. Just a sticky note, typed like the label:
“Last chance.”
I take photos of everything and forward them to Asher with my location, the time-stamps, and three exclamation points that I delete, then put back, then delete again. Riley pings:
Riley: Want me to come over? I can bring my cardboard box and my mean face.
Me: Stay put. I’m fine. (Lying.) Asher’s on his way.
Riley: Fine. But if the quail guy shows up with backup, text me a code word.
Me: Code word = “artichoke.”
Riley: Too obvious. Make it “prom.”
Me: Prom. Got it.
I tuck the envelope into a zip bag, label it with the time in thick Sharpie—because Asher’s officerness is contagious—and set it by the door. The house is suddenly too quiet for how loud my head is.
No more handing out free space in my brain. No more letting Harold write the script.
I square my shoulders, tell my blood to simmer down, and go find the hottest water the shower will allow. In the steam, panic unwinds into something sharper: anger, and a plan.
Screw this.
From now on, I do things my way, even if it means confronting Harold Swanson myself. I’m tired of hiding. When Asher gets back, I’m going to tell him.
And right when I finally manage to think about anything else, the image from last night flickers back through the fog: the warm press of his hand around my wrist, the way his mouth found mine like we’d both been holding our breath for weeks.
I kissed Asher Vaughn.
And the part that makes my skin hum? I liked it.
I never want to stop kissing him—and I have no idea what I’m going to do about that.